GABRIEL
The roar of the Triumph’s engine was the only thing keeping the wolf at bay as we tore through the rain-slicked streets of London. Emma was a warm, rigid weight against my back, her hands locked around my waist with a strength that wasn't human. Through the Bond, I could feel her mind—a frantic, high-speed architect’s office, frantically rearranging the blueprints of Damien’s betrayal.
But beneath that, I felt the Thread.
It was a thin, shimmering line of silver light in my mind’s eye, connecting my solar plexus to hers. It was rare. Most Alphas had a tether to their mates, a general sense of location or mood. But the Silver Thread? That was the stuff of blood-soaked legend. It meant she wasn't just my mate; she was my mirror.
We pulled into a safe house in Whitechapel—a damp,
